The Last Book
by Maddeningly Mad
Summary: As Death goes to collect Liesel's soul, he thinks....


The color I first notice makes me halt in mid-step.

Of course, I see billions of colors; I have been seeing colors for as long as I have walked this world, drifting from soul to soul, taking those who needed to be gathered, and leaving behind those who had the will to go on. I make it a point to see the colors first; I make it a point to remember the colors more clearly than the eclipses that follow them as life fades away.

**A POINT OF INTEREST  
I have seen more eclipses  
than I care to think about,  
for when all we think about is the eclipse,  
we fail to notice the colors that are more beautiful  
afterwards than they had been before.**

So, yes I have seen many colors, many billions of colors than could make you ponder at the complexity of its greenish-yellowish-bluish, or may not catch your attention at all. Sadly, most people only notice the colors that are boldest – the ones that you see the easiest. Bright reds, noble purples, eccentric yellows…

This color that I notice is not one of those colors. The color I do see first is one that I have not seen in a while, and I suppose it is fitting it appear now, the day when I dread most gathering up the souls of those whose time has expired. Suffice it to say, I am surprised.

**WHAT I HAVE WONDERED  
I have wondered,  
ever since the day I first saw her,  
what color the sky would be,  
when the day would come that I stand over her,  
and take her soul away from its home.**

The color is that of chocolate, a mass of bleeding red sunsets and black clouds, with soft white specks of snow that complete the spectrum of the sky. As I take into consideration the meaning of these four colors, I remember the three times I have seen the book thief in the flesh, each moment burned into my mind. Calmly, I remember.

**THE THREE COLORS  
The first time I saw the book thief, it was white,  
and I had not come for her,  
but whom I had come for  
would unknowingly change her life.  
And then it was black,  
all smog and shadows and disaster.  
The last time, it was red,  
and the sky was bleeding with the fire that rained down upon the people.  
**

My memories are sufficient to allow me to watch those days as clearly as it would be if happening now. I can see her through the colors, but again and again I remember her dropping to her knees, howling as if the world could hear her scream, and bring back those she had lost.

The house is small but cozy, and a pale blue color that is hard to see through the thickness of the falling flakes. I am cold, but her house will be warm. She will be lying down, a peaceful smile on her old face. I will watch her for a few moments, hearing her heartbeat sputter and fade away. And when it does fade into absence, I will gently unlatch her soul and take it away. But will she sit up…? Or will she turn away in defiance in the form of a childish pout, knowing I have no choice, but deciding to believe otherwise?

Many people do not believe I have a heart. But as I cross the threshold into the warmth of the place she calls home, I feel it fluttering like a caged bird, wings beating against what keeps it imprisoned. Time will have taken its toll on her, that I know. And yet, I know I shall be surprised when I see who she has become, for all the memories I have of her are her as a child…defiant, sad, screaming out her emotions to protest the fire in the sky.

The door is ajar, and yet I hesitate as I stand outside, listening to the murmur of words. She is not yet gone from this world—I hear her heart, feel her breath, her presence on my mind not yet absent. Yet, I can feel her slowly ebbing away, a receding line of ocean that washed up black on the sandy beach.

**THE MOMENT IT ENDS  
Most people are not aware  
when they cease to exist as a being,  
and only when I lean over them to pick them up  
do they panic and beg me to leave.  
For Liesel,  
it is the opposite.**

I slide in through the door, expecting to see a crowd of people surrounding her bed. Yet, I see only one man, with feathers of hair and muddy eyes. His hands are knotted and wrinkled everywhere, one of his clutching her small, gentle ones. He is familiar to me, for I have tried to take him several times. Every time I have traveled to him, he has evaded me—and what I once thought was laugh-worthy has become almost a tradition between me and him. Each time, he meets me fighting. And each time, he slips back to life.

I want to place my hand on his shoulder, and say, "I'm so sorry, old friend". I am sorry—I am sorry I had to take her away from him, and I am sorry for not believing in him when he as a child bragged to meet death fighting.

Prayers escape his lips, the murmuring I heard from outside the door. I listen carefully, wondering what someone of his strength would pray for. As I hear the whispered words, I slowly shake my head. What he is praying for is not for the book thief to survive—but to give him the strength to carry on without her. I know the next time I come for him, he will not be so fierce in the defense of his soul. He will meet me sitting up, I am sure.

Wrinkled hands tighten suddenly on those that seem, to me, to suddenly have lost decades of age, smoothing to become those of the girl I used to know. He knows before I do that it is time for me to do my job.

Stepping from behind him, I survey the woman prone in death, a hint of a smile on her lips.

**THE BOOK THIEF'S SOUL  
She does not just sit up to meet me,  
She stands up with her arms outstretched,  
smiling genially at me as if we are old friends.  
I finger the book in my pocket,  
and wonder if she knows.**

I take her in my arms, but I do not carry her. I feel as though it would be an insult for her, and I am certain she is grateful, for she smiles again and takes my hand, joining me to walk out the door. She hesitates before doing so, turning back to the man with the feathered hair at her bedside, tears leaking from closed eyes to drip down his cheeks. She looks at me with clarity in her eyes, and, just like her Papa so many years ago, asks, "Max?"

I tell her he will not suffer for long. But even as I look back at him, sitting on the chair pushed up right against the mattress, head in his hands, I wonder if I could take any more suffering myself, even if I am not the one doing the suffering—especially if I am not the one suffering.

But her hand in my hand is warm, and I forget the eclipse I have just witnessed, choosing to smile gently and walk out into the open, keeping a hold on her so she doesn't drift away. We talk. We smile. We laugh.

Death is only a human's best friend in death. I almost tell her that, but then I stop before I can open my mouth. I am happy right now, even as I head to the next person in line, because even through suffering I have someone to share it with.

**AN ENDING NOTE  
I will later tell Liesel this, but for the moment,  
I will tell you  
even though you may have already guessed;  
humans haunt me.**


End file.
